


Love Is a Clash of Lightning Bolts

by lahijadelmar



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Fingerfucking, Oral Sex, PWP, Sex, after a time richard has to first mull over the practicalities, doesn't make him less willing tho technically speaking lol, or rather taking advantage of feelings they were already aware of?? I think??, waiting out a hurricane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26028556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lahijadelmar/pseuds/lahijadelmar
Summary: Set during ep 7, season 2, when Camille and Richard are forced to wait out Hurricane Irma from within the university, but with an obviously different outcome. Certain feelings have a way of unearthing themselves when stuck in a small place lit only by candles, after all.
Relationships: Camille Bordey/Richard Poole
Comments: 18
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh....idk, I just always thought they should've hooked up in this scene? So here you go? Huehuehue. 
> 
> Let me know if yall have any interest in a follow-up, 'epilogue' type chapter where Dwayne and Fidel discover them the morning after. I didn't include it as I felt it might be a little too silly and not in the spirit of -this- particular chapter, but if there's enough interest...might do the thing! 
> 
> Shout out to my boy Neruda for the story title; I always hit up his work for title ideas when I can think of nothing else- which is almost always.

He doesn’t realize he’s rambling at the expense of his partner. To be fair, this is a thing Richard  _ often _ doesn’t realize or much care about, generally speaking, but he does have some regard for the odd circumstances they find themselves in. When Camille takes, throws his pen to the side, and points out that he’s been talking “for  _ two hours _ ” about the case without relent, Richard decides it’s best to accept defeat and just apologize. He knows now, after all, that Camille doesn’t quite latch on to these puzzles the same way he does. 

“Have you ever stayed in a caravan?” 

Some attempt to change the subject, for her sake. It doesn’t yet occur to him maybe she’s hoping to get some sleep and was trying to coax him into silence. The best he can do in the moment is recall and share his experience of holidays gone-by. 

“Uhm. Luckily, my life hasn’t hit those depths yet.” 

Fair enough, he supposes, as while those in England endure the Camille-described ‘depressing holidays’, those in the Carribean get lashed by hurricanes. He decides better of pointing out that Camille’s life may have indeed hit the depths she’s describing, as they’re essentially acting out the caravan experience right now. Whether they’d like to or not. 

Richard’s enjoying himself though. So much so, he looks over at his partner and says,

“Tell you what, if you ever come to England, I’ll take you on a caravan to Clacton for the weekend.” 

Her incredulous, widening eyes are lost on him, and he misses completely the way she laughs into her pillow when his back is turned. 

“God, I suddenly feel homesick.” Richard doesn’t usually choose to talk this way around her- or anyone. What he’s professing out loud now is more along the lines of thought patterns he’d keep to himself in a normal context, but maybe it’s due to the unprecedented intimacy of their circumstance...or because he can easily look away from her and pretend he’s talking to the wall. 

“I’m even missing my dad. Good god, what’s wrong with me? …...you know, I really should phone him.” 

He might be rambling now. He does that often when he feels nervous or at a lack of decent topics to grace. 

“Is he like you?” 

“My father? God no.” 

“What’s he like then?” 

And Richard explains, at least, to the best of his ability. He tells her something he doesn’t realize he’s never told anyone else, that his choice to become a police officer was almost entirely because of his father steering him away from anything else. Did he do it to make his father happy, she asks? Well, of course. Doesn’t every child want to please their father? 

“Don’t ask me, I haven’t seen mine in years.” 

She doesn’t seem overly sad about this fact, but he offers his apologies anyway. 

“If it’s any consolation, I haven’t had a decent conversation with my father in about 20 years.”

Richard also doesn’t imagine he’d been doing any experiments or coming across groundbreaking discoveries in his father’s name, which is, at least, one thing that sets him apart from the victim of the crime. 

“Yknow, growing up I was not unlike Leo Downs.” Camille has probably surmised as much, but he says it anyway. “Always on the periphery. Never at the centre of things...I suppose that’s why I like puzzles. Generally, they’re things you can do on your own.” 

Richard might be something of a ‘gritty realist’ on a good day, about most things, but when it comes to himself...well, there are certain self-preservation methods he uses either consciously or otherwise. What good does it do to linger on one’s own pitfalls? Perhaps he’s lonely in a sense and always has been. But there are puzzles! 

“But you don’t have to anymore.” Camille says, and he assumes it’s probably the setup for a lighthearted tease. “You have me.” 

Oh. 

Not a tease at all, but a genuine sentiment. She’s looking very pointedly at him. 

His breath catches a bit in his throat and he looks away. It’s not his intent to diminish what she’s saying to him, but he’s never been good at this sort of thing. Honest admissions of friendship, partnership...with  _ him _ no less. 

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t scare him, it always did, and what’s worse he knows he has a penchant for saying and doing the exact wrong thing to cause the other person offense. 

But Camille’s laughing. Not in a derogatory or ridiculing way, either, but in that way that makes her eyes light up and speak to the fact that she actually finds him-....charming? Sometimes? Maybe  _ charming _ is too strong a word, unless it’s ‘charming’ in relation to a puppy doing a trick. Something akin to that though. 

Either way, he doesn’t dislike it at all. 

“This is amusing you, isn’t it? My discomfort?” It’s his best guess, but he’s not resentful. Under certain circumstances, he takes a unique pleasure in making Camille laugh even if it is unintentional. She admits she is amused, and he submits that she’s at least honest about it. 

“Well, you’re-...you’re so  _ pompous _ sometimes?” she explains, albeit gently. “I like it when you’re just...human?” 

She might not realize what she’s saying. Or perhaps, more jarring, she  _ does _ realize what she’s saying and the effect it has on him. 

She likes it when he’s ‘just human’. She likes it when he’s ‘just Richard’. Because what else has he been doing for the past handful of minutes but just...speaking his truths? Opening up to someone in a real, honest way for the first time in...maybe ever? Richard doesn’t know what to do with a situation like this that doesn’t end badly. 

“I like you too.” It sort of stumbles out without much thought. “I mean, that is-...I like you for who you are. I appreciate you- and the...work you do. I...I worry sometimes I don’t say that enough. Or. Make it clear at all, in any way. As you say I can be…” He clears his throat, still avoiding eye contact with her. “Pompous. Rude.” 

He can hear her chuckle and mutter out an agreement of, “...yes,  _ sometimes _ …” 

“No, no, no, Camille, I-...I’m being serious.” As much as he does enjoy making her laugh, apparently, at least in certain situations, he feels he owes her more than that now. “I worry I don’t always...treat you with the respect and…” He almost says  _ affection _ , but he doesn’t know if that’s the right word. The appropriate word. “And... _ courtesy _ that you deserve.” 

“No, not always, but...I believe in your ability to improve.” 

She’s still smirking, he can hear it in her voice, and he discerns that this is his fault. He’s not being as upfront as he was before. 

“You’re a very good partner,” he says finally, this time willing himself to meet her eyes. “The best I’ve ever had actually. That’s not-...that’s not a very glowing comparison, considering the like I’ve had to work with before, but it’s the truth. I imagine even if I’d had a  _ good _ partner prior to you, they’d still not compare.” 

But that’s not the end of it, is it? He knows it isn’t. Describing her as a ‘good partner’ doesn’t even begin to dig deep into the pile of confusion that is his feelings for the woman beside him. 

“And you’re a very good friend,” he continues, but it still feels lacking. “You seem to...not mind accepting me for what I am. Warts and all. I should try to do a better job of returning that favor.” 

He feels her hand slip into his, thread their fingers together. His movements are somewhat stiff, he’s certain, but that’s only because he’s yet to acclimate to the more...tactile gestures of island life. Or French life, perhaps. The French do love touching. Anyway, he definitely doesn’t  _ oppose _ the feeling even for all the unfamiliar panic it might induce somewhere deep within him. 

“It’s not a chore,” she clarifies. “Well... _ this _ isn’t. How we are right now.” 

That’s a mercy, he thinks. He’s more himself right now than he is on a general day at work. She seems to understand that. 

Her other arm has found its way across his shoulders, just gently, friendly, comforting rubbing on the back he knows, but what Dwayne might have also done to him in a moment of platonic soothing doesn’t elicit the same feelings when it’s, instead,  _ her _ . He chooses not to comment on it, not until she’s leaned up, pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, and successfully flooded every limb of his with a hot flush. 

There are so many reasons as to why his feelings are inappropriate. He knows why he buries them down. Ignores them. 

She is his coworker, his partner. His friend, yes, he thinks he can assume, but anything within him that might want things to be more... _ infinitely _ more…

He pats the hand of hers that’s become entwined with his, looks away and tries to disentangle himself from her before this can get any more confusing. 

“Have I made you uncomfortable?” She always cuts right to the heart of things. 

“No, no, no, not at all, I just-...” 

“Then why do you move away from me?” 

Must she always _ insist  _ on extricating the truth from him? Is it not enough to collectively agree some things must be ignored, reinvented for the sake of the situation? It’s occurring to him that he might have been better off staying put. 

“It’s just-...I’m not-...touching like this is-...” 

Oh, well done, Richard, very eloquent. 

“Unfamiliar?” she supplies. 

“Yes…” he laughs nervously and she releases him, but he feels quite empty when she does and wishes he wouldn’t seem like too much of a prat to try to take it all back. 

He decides he would, and also decides there’s more pressing issues to be addressed than his own petulance and indecision. 

“It’s not that I don’t  _ want _ you touching me, Camille,” he clarifies, having chosen to give up concern for trying to preserve professionalism. She deserves more than that. “I...if I’m honest, I quite like it when you do, actually, it’s just that-” 

“What if that was enough?” 

He looks over at her again, for the first time in a millennia it feels like. “What if what was-...? The...the  _ liking _ it, bit? Is...is that what you mean?” 

“ _ Yes _ ,” she sighs, but it’s punctuated with that same endeared grin. “Have you ever done something just because you  _ liked _ it? With no concern for anything else?” 

He has to think about it for a moment, but that seems to be indication enough. No. No, Richard never does things just because he  _ likes _ them. He does things on a strictly high gain-to-loss ratio with a strong overarching concern for practicality. Sometimes security. Sometimes things work out enough that he ends up with an activity he likes that also assuages his concerns (reading a book, or doing a puzzle, for instance) but never does he act purely on whim. 

“No,” he admits outloud. “No, I...it doesn’t seem I have. At least not recently. Maybe last when I was 5 or something.” 

She’s just looking at him now, maybe with a sense of expectation, and Richard hems and haws in his own head for a moment before his fingers are meeting with hers again. 

“I _ do _ like this.” 

Because he does. For as much as it scares him, he does like it. He likes her. He likes the way he accidentally makes her eyes and smile light up just by being his usual neurotic self. He likes the way her skin feels against his. He likes her wit, her sense of adventure, he likes-

The reminder that they’re waiting out a hurricane gets thrown into sharp relief when something or other gets slammed against the window behind them by the roaring wind. They both jump a bit, Camille’s shock propelling her into Richard’s side. 

“Another wayward bin lid, I’d imagine,” Richard guesses, and though he knows she doesn’t need his comfort his arm has now instinctively found its way around  _ her _ shoulders. How the tables turn. “But, there, see? No harm done. Must have assembled these windows to withstand anything.” 

It’s tempting to make another mention of the storm of ‘87, even if he knows now that gale had nothing against the storms of the Caribbean Atlantic. Thankfully Camille interrupts him. 

“You smell nice.” 

She says it as if it’s a nice surprise, one she hadn’t expected to find huddled close to him. 

“Uhm. Thank you.” But he isn’t as flattered as all that, because hadn’t they been in...semi close proximity before? Wouldn’t she know how he smelled? Would it really shock her to find out he doesn’t smell unpleasant? “I  _ do _ try to wash myself regularly, you know, it’s not as if I walk around this sweatbox without observing proper hyg-” 

But wherever that was going dies on his lips, as Camille is suddenly leaning up. Leaning into the curve between his neck and shoulder. Her lips just  _ there _ , her hot breath blowing subtly against the few inches of exposed skin above his collar and his breath hitches again. 

“It’s your cologne,” she clarifies, pulling away from him just enough that her face is mere inches from his, her skin is alight with the soft, warm glow of the candles and...there may be more points of interest beyond this but he’s willing himself not to look. 

“Aftershave.” He corrects, though his voice wavers. Does she realize what she’s doing to him? “...I think. Is what you’re smelling…” 

“Do you wear it often? You should.” 

He does. He has. She’s just never been  _ this _ close before and-...he’s having a hard time conjuring up clear thoughts right now. 

“I-if  _ you  _ like it, then...then, I suppose I will.” Completely disregarding that this is the same brand he puts on after shaving as he has every day since he arrived, completely unconcerned with correcting that assumption as he’d so normally be, because nothing about this is normal. 

“What do  _ you _ like, Richard? What do  _ you _ want?” 

There again with those pointed questions, and in such a context that he doesn’t think he can use his usual deflection. Not successfully anyway. But he doesn’t think this way, he doesn’t prioritize those things, and surely if he told her what he  _ really _ liked and what he  _ really _ wanted it would be to the ruin of them both. 

But she’s there. She’s so close, and willingly so, with the intent, it seems, of making him face that which he’s tried to run from since their original meeting. And perhaps it’s worse now, now that he really knows her…

She’s beautiful, of course, Richard isn’t a fool. He saw it the moment they first met, he sees it with increasing clarity every day, but in no situation they’ve been in to this point has it been advantageous, convenient, appropriate or respectful to her to think of her in these terms. Every time he finds his thoughts sliding elsewhere, he tamps it down. There are always things securing that he will. Their current case, the Commissioner, Dwayne or Fidel saying something, and so on and so on. 

Now, however, it is only them, the warm firelight, and the storm that rages outside, and she is...so staggeringly beautiful. All of her, every piece. There’s nothing standing in the way of him seeing that in full. The natural pursing of her lips, the sharpness of her eyes, the curvature of her jaw, her shoulders. 

“You.” 

His answer falls clumsily from his lips before he even realizes what he’s saying. Her eyebrows leap in surprise. Richard panics. 

“I-...” he makes an attempt to fix things, but her finger is over his lips, hushing him. 

“Me.” She says. It’s not a request for clarification so much as it is a statement of fact. “You like me. You  _ want _ me.” 

And yes, he does. But could it  _ ever _ be that simple? 

No. No, it can’t. 

He pushes himself up and off of their makeshift palette of blankets, regretfully away from her and the warm, slightly intoxicating haze they’ve created between the two of them. 

“Camille, I think-...this is getting a bit out of hand.” 

She seems confused, maybe even  _ offended _ , and he knows he needs to make it clear this has nothing to do with any fault of her own. 

“It’s just-...” He’s standing now, fiddling with thoughts and his own indecision. “We’re-...partners, coworkers...I don’t see how this wouldn’t end badly.” 

Camille’s still on the palette, of course, and she smirks knowingly, stretches herself out over the blankets in such a way that-....Richard  _ has _ to avert his eyes. 

“Are you afraid of what the Commissioner will think?” she guesses, and  _ no _ , Selwyn Patterson is the very last person he would be thinking about now, but now that she’s mentioned it he has a vague, albeit very terrifying image in his head of the Commissioner excoriating him for-...whatever it is that’s about to happen here and, bloody hell, that’s so, so much worse. 

He makes to trod over to the window, because that seems safest, but then he remembers the detritus that keeps slamming against the glass and imagines himself once again getting pelted in the head-

“He’s not as conservative as he seems. At least not...where this is concerned.” 

Richard’s fumbling with his cufflinks, idly, but his eyes widen a bit. 

“Where... _ what _ is concerned…?” 

Commissioner Patterson being casually accepting of his officers being anything less than professional with each other?? It doesn’t seem plausible. 

“He may have...made some comments to me in the past,” Camille explains. “About you and I. I  _ will _ say that I don’t think...he’d be anything less than thrilled.” 

Maybe that’s supposed to be encouraging, but Richard really can’t decide which is worse to be mulling over. 

“Can we please  _ not _ discuss the Commissioner right now…?!” 

He’s all tied up in knots, his back turned to her, on the verge of what feels like an impending mental breakdown, caught between that which he knows to be safe, secure...and that which he actually wants. There’s no making heads or tails of any of it, not until he can feel her hands on him again, wrapping around his midsection. Her head rests on the small off his back, he can feel. 

And just like that, it’s as if clarity has been restored to him. 

“I don’t want to frighten you,” she says, and he knows it’s honest. “Come on. Let’s just try to get some sleep, hmm? It’s getting late.” 

Camille does so love to torment him, but only when the stakes aren’t as high as this. He’s safe with her. He’s safer with her than he’s been with anyone else he’s ever known. Maybe it’s time he stopped taking that for granted. 

He turns around, so now she is in _ his _ arms instead. 

“You could never frighten me,” he assures. “Not  _ really _ .” 

She’s smiling wickedly again, and he doesn’t know why, but she’s here with him and so very much her, and  _ god _ he wants to kiss her. Lord forgive him, and so much more…

“No. Not really. Not unless it’s a well-timed rubber snake toy, eh?” 

She’s laughing again, that kind of laugh unique to her that bubbled up from the bottom of her throat, and though the prank she mentions had made him  _ so frustrated _ at the time he wonders that maybe it wasn’t all worth it just to amuse her. Maybe anything would be. 

He cups her face in his hands, the tips of his fingers surging into the fringes of her hair, and she’s quiet. For a moment. 

“Richard…” she breathes, as if questioning him...making  _ sure _ he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t, really, but it feels right. 

“....can I kiss you…?” 

It’s not what people who know what they’re doing in these situations say, it’s not romantic or smooth, and he knows this, but he’s also starting to suspect that if Camille wanted those things she wouldn’t be in _ his  _ arms right now. 

“I was waiting to ask you the same question.” 

But she’s kissing  _ him _ before he can do anything, and there it is. Right there. Richard doesn’t describe many things as perfect, but if anything in the world was, it’s certainly her full lips pressing against his.  _ Finally _ . And just like that, any fear or apprehension that kept him back from this, from her, is gone. 

Richard must have underestimated how much they both wanted this. He realizes this, mutely, in between their hands in something of a flurry to gain purchase on each other, at some point when her fingers are raking up through the back of his hair, sending shivers up his spine…

“Camille…” he manages in a shaking sigh. His hands ball into a fist around the thin fabric of her shirt. 

Her mouth finds his neck when he pulls away from her lips, overcome by it all. She might be trying to center him with these open-mouthed kisses to all the sensitive points between his ear and shoulder, with the way she unbuttons more of his shirt to gain further access, but he feels anything but. He is anchored to the ground, to reality, only by way of her touch. 

“Richard. We don’t have to go any further…” 

She’s pulled back. Why has she done  _ that _ ?? 

The statement occurs to him a few moments after she’s said it, and he wishes she hadn’t, because _ yes _ he wants this, and  _ yes _ he wants anything she does, all of that which she’s willing to give, he will take, but that concern is back and...he really doesn’t want to be thinking of it. Not now. 

“No, we don’t…” he agrees. “But...we can. That is, I-...I’d very much like to, if you do-...” 

It’s the best he can do, and thank god Camille is so much more comfortable with these things than he is. 

She grins again, leaves him completely (which is not ideal), returns to the palette of blankets and motions for him to join her again (which is very much ideal). 

Again, this is probably an opportunity for him to put the breaks on things. This is an opportunity in which he  _ could _ choose to favor the anxiety that always blankets him, but there’s something he wants more, and they’ve passed a point Richard doesn’t think he can return to. 

And why would he? Where has this apprehension gotten him thus far? Well.  _ Here _ , he supposes, but then if he was just willing to run out into a storm and get assaulted by a trash bin lid, then surely he can’t be all that meek-

“Richard…?” she asks. She’s so gentle with him when necessity requires it. 

But then...perhaps he doesn’t want to be treated gently. He doesn’t really want her to feel like she has to tiptoe around things. Not now, anyway. 

He resolves himself back on the blankets. His arm snakes up her back as she lays there on her side, determined as he is now to show her what she means to him- what  _ this _ means to him. 

“There is nothing I’ve wanted more,” he assures her with only truth he knows, their lips finding their way back to each other. She’s grabbing the fabric of his dress shirt in her fingers, pulling him down to lay with her. 

She climbs on top of him. His hands fall to her hips, his fingertips digging into the denim of her jeans. 

He wants to find out what other things he might be able to do to elicit reactions from her. He wants to bring her pleasure, make her back arch upwards, make even more beautiful sounds fall from her mouth. He’s greedy, he supposes. 

But then, so is she. He knows this when he feels her slender fingers wrap around the stiff protrusion that’s made itself known between his legs. The fabric of his trousers is still there, but it does little to dampen the sensation rushing through him now. On instinct, maybe, his hips thrust into her grasp. 

“I was... _ going _ to ask if this is okay, but-...” 

No, she doesn’t need to ask. She doesn’t need to ask about anything. 

“It’s okay,” he promises with a thick swallow. “More than.  _ Camille _ -...” 

Her name is a song on his tongue, a request for something he doesn’t know how to verbalize properly, but she knows. She always knows, doesn’t she? What he needs, what he  _ wants _ …

His belt is undone before he realizes it. The same is true of his zipper. He does, however, notice with much clarity the way she wets her hand with her tongue before- 

_ Oh dear lord in heaven _ . 

Somehow, he doesn’t think any of his Catholic school matrons would approve of the way and the context in which he’s praising the lord’s name, but then he hasn’t known anything more heavenly than the feel of her flesh against his. Uninterrupted. Unhindered. She holds his-...his manhood so expertly, and when she begins to drag her grip along the length of him-

He panics just a moment because he knows he can’t stay like this. He can’t last like this. He doesn’t want it to be over before it even began, before he can do anything for her. 

“Camille…” he says her name again, more firmly this time, as he takes hold of her wrist. He half hates himself for doing it. “I can’t-...” 

She understands and, thankfully, says nothing of his inability to hold on as long as he’d like. It’s been...a very long time since anything similar to this happened for him, after all. She probably knows that too. She releases him. 

She lets go only to move her hands to the hem of her tank top, pull it off completely in one swift movement. The truth is, he’s seen more of her than this before. Back when he was convinced she was a convict and linked to the murder case put before him, he’d seen her, briefly, in nothing more than a two-piece. That was, of course, a different context and different stakes and any beauty in the reveal of her form was lost on him then. Probably for the best. 

It isn’t lost on him now. 

“This too?” she asks, already reaching for the clasp of her bra. He’d like to do it himself, but refrains at the memory that he isn’t too good with the complex machinations of women’s undergarments and would like to spare himself the embarrassment. 

“This too…” he agrees, caressing the sides of her torso. “If-...if you like.” 

“Yes, I would  _ very much _ like.” 

Yes, obviously. He needn’t have been so careful. Why else would she already be reaching to discard it if she  _ didn’t like _ ? 

Once again, she manages to steal both thought and breath from him the more she exposes. Her bra comes off in a flash and all he sees is her, perfect and glowing and making everything so much more difficult down south. 

But horror of horrors, he notices that, for once,  _ she _ is insecure. Is she wondering if he approves of this? If he likes what he sees? This is a thing Richard must set straight immediately. 

He sits up slightly. His hands move upward from where he gently caressed her sides, to the full swell of her now bare breasts. They rest heavy, sumptuous in his grasp. 

“You’re  _ so _ beautiful.” 

He says it to no one in particular, maybe thinking it was only in his head or maybe not, but his focus remains solely on the unearthed treasure before him. His thumb wanders idly over one of her nipples, not thinking much of it, and she keens a little. Her hips jut forward, trapping his erection between them. They breathe out each other’s names in the small space between them, desperate. 

Words are becoming more difficult but, blessedly, more and more unnecessary. 

She’s kissing him again, long and slow, her hips moving against him in such a way that sends a spark of pleasure coursing through him. Her nimble fingers, that just a moment ago were breaking into a snack machine, now make similar work of the unopened buttons on his shirt. He’s as bare as she is before he knows it, her palms sliding down the slope of his chest and pectoral muscles, playing with the tufts of hair that grow there. 

Richard decides he’s had enough of her doing most of the grunt work, wants to be a more proactive participant in the experiment of ‘finding what makes Camille make those noises’, and promptly flips them over so she’s on her back now, he perched above. 

She doesn’t seem at all opposed to this change in position, particularly when he does away with her jeans...her underwear, that he realizes only after he’s pulling it down her legs was, in fact, a thong. More exploration of that later, perhaps. He hopes. 

Now, granted, it has been awhile since Richard’s found himself between a woman’s legs, but he is far from ignorant. A healthy knowledge of human anatomy guides him, as does the desire to just... _ god _ , have this woman, taste her, explore every stretch of the true paradise that is her body, make her moan and cry. There is little else in the world that exists right now but that alone. 

When her jeans are gone and she is bare completely, Richard’s hands coast up her thighs. Her legs fall apart for him automatically. He is more than welcome here- perhaps he has been for some time. 

And this beauty, all of her laid out before him, the fire that burns in her eyes as she waits to see what he will do...it is exquisite. It is heaven. 

“ _ Oh _ , my darling…” 

Another sentiment that falls from his mouth without much thought, more of an exclamation, really, than anything he’d carefully planned. None of this, of course, has been carefully planned. 

She says something back to him in French, something he can’t quite decipher in the haze of things, but he thinks it might have been a breathy, ‘mon cher’, as she toys with the hair on his chest again. The language that has so often been a nuisance to him in situations gone by now sets his limbs on fire- then, that might just be because it’s  _ Camille _ saying it. 

Also, it’s nothing compared to what happens when his thumb finds her center, the apex of her pleasure, and rubs gentle, experimental circles there. Her head falls back, her neck goes concave, one of her hands squeezes her own breast. 

His index and middle finger dare to sink within. She is so deliciously hot and wet around him. His eyes shut of their own accord, he hisses through his teeth because it’s too much and not enough all at once, and when he curls those fingers into a part of her he hopes will be fruitful-...

It is. She cries out a bit, grasps the blankets above her head. Her hair is laid out behind her, unbidden and sprawling like the roots of a tree. 

“Baise-moi fort…!” she cries out when his fingers pick up speed, hitting that core of her again and again. He doesn’t think to try to translate it, only vaguely aware words had been spoken at all, but she says it a few more times and then just before he breaks her, right on the edge of the peak of pleasure that washes over her in subtle little shakes. He can feel them though, through her legs, just beneath his touch. 

Richard presses a lingering kiss to the side of her knee. 

Camille finally translates that which she had been begging for, as she sits up, cups his cheek and says softly, “Make love to me.” 

Nothing else but that. No other word. Make  _ love _ to me- because that’s all Richard can do in the end, that’s the only term that would accurately describe what he had been hoping she would ask for. 

He stands to do away with his pants for good, but as she has been rendered no less eager by her first orgasm, Camille sits up to help him. 

She helps perhaps too much. She helps to the point that even when his pants are finally done away with, her hand and...- _ Jesus, Mary and Joseph _ \- her lips have found the length of him again. 

How can he be expected to stand like this? It’s a gargantuan effort, to be sure, trying to stave off his own end, while standing, while he sinks deeper into her heavenly, generous mouth and watches as her honey eyes fixate on him, monitoring his reactions as he did hers. 

“Camille-...!” he begs again for something he can’t bring himself to say outloud. His legs are wobbling and it’s so very embarrassing. 

Again, she understands. She lets go of him with a lewd pop (a sound he’ll not soon forget), then guides him back down to the blankets, back on top of her, her limbs wrapping around him and-...

He can feel the center of her heat against him. He’s practically breaching it as is and as much as he wishes to give in, there’s so much more about this moment he wants to mentally record for later. 

With his head resting against the curve of her neck, all he can breathe in (all he  _ wants _ to breathe in) is her scent- that mix of soap, salt, perfume maybe, nutty cocoa butter... every sense if flooded with her. Everything is her. It must have been for awhile, whether he realized it or not. 

“Mon ange,” she purrs. “Look at me.” 

He does. There’s no command she’d give him right now that he wouldn’t willingly obey. They hold each other’s gaze as he finds easy passage within her. For as tight and searing hot as she is around him, for as much as just filling her makes him gasp, it’s as if they were made to be together this way. Molded physically as much for one as the other. 

He wants to warn her he won’t last long. He wants to make it clear that he’s probably not performing at his best. There’s so much he wants to say, apologize for, caution towards, all things he’s mumbled in more awkward, heated moments before, but now, here, with Camille all he can say is, 

“I love you.” He kisses her again, without any reservation this time. “God, Camille, I  _ love _ you…” 

Their union is probably short-lived, he knows, had one of them been taking the exact time. A strange thought, but true. Nevertheless, it is  _ everything _ for him, lasting an eternity and, yet, not nearly enough time. He’d stay right here for the rest of forever if he could have it his way, the only reality he knew being Camille- her scent, the warmth of her, the cries that he elicits as he moves within her that reverberate to the tip of her every limb. 

He spends himself within her as stars burst and break behind his eyelids, as she comes again too and grips into his back with bared fingernails. He’ll probably lament the pain later. Not now though. Now, he takes everything she gives with the utmost gratitude. 

They lie beside each other when it’s all said and done, their fingers still entwined despite it all. Fear begins to flood him again- and, for what, it’s hard to say. For so many things. Will she come to regret this now? What does this mean for them going forward, if anything? He wants there to be something. He can’t go back to the way things were. 

Just looking over at her grants him the comfort he needed, as she’s still smiling at him- sleepily, but so certain of this. 

“I love you too,” she says after a time, and he remembers his exclamation in the heat of the moment. She sits up a little, leans her head against her closed fist. “Maman always cautioned me not to say it in the thick of things, only when it could be truly genuine. And you? Do you regret saying it?” 

He might have asked her not to mention Catherine right now, but he’s moreover concerned with her assumption that he’d want to take back what he said. How could he ever-....? 

Richard answers her with another lingering kiss, a caress down the slope of her back which becomes a pull to his side. 

“If anything, I kept it far too long,” he promises.


	2. Epilogue Type of Thing I guess!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwayne and Fidel go looking for Camille and Richard after the storm. A little silly end piece and another scene I thought might deserve a funny re-telling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here it is. Pure silliness and embarrassment, but I -had- been wondering what would happen THIS TIME when Fidel and Dwayne came back. If you thought the original version was awkward....yiKES.

“Well, the Land Rover’s here so they must be too.” 

They hadn’t been overly worried about Richard and Camille, knowing as Dwayne and Fidel do that they can handle just about anything that gets thrown at them. Maybe not flying dustbin lids though, as Dwayne notices blood the moment they’re at the door to the University. Fidel removes his hat and moves to take point on whatever scene that awaits them within. It’s probably due, as Dwayne knows he’s preparing for his Sargent’s exam, but all the same...Fidel is still young. Pure in his way. Whatever’s become of their colleagues, Dwayne has the instinctive feeling he doesn’t want Fidel to see. At least...not before he does. Dwayne’s a man of the world, after all; a Saturday night out for him would surely leave someone like Fidel with a few mental scars. 

“It’s alright,” Dwayne says, moving ahead of him to open the door first. 

But it doesn’t budge. 

“Locked…?” Fidel guesses. 

Dwayne thinks he should have come to that conclusion first, before he surged ahead in his ‘experienced copper mode’ to show up to his younger coworker, being that a hurricane just blew through and _of course_ they’d bar the doors closed. Fidel’s already on the case though, kneeling down to examine the clues that surround them. 

“From the placement of the blood on the lid, the barring of the door...we can assume they made their way in here and put themselves on lockdown. They’re probably fine. Maybe still asleep.” 

Fidel seems jealous of the fact. Dwayne just hooks his thumbs into his belt and smiles down teasingly at him. 

“You’re starting to sound like the Chief. Good job you do though. That’s part of the exam, right? To talk as much like a stiff Detective Inspector as possible? You’re well on your way.” 

Fidel rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning too because...it is _kind of_ funny. 

“We should look for another point of entry,” Fidel decides, once again unconcerned if he does sound like all the Richard Pooles and Commissioner Pattersons that came before him. “One of them may need medical care.” 

Also, there’s a case to be solved. Also, most of the mobile services on the island had gone down with the storm, so simply calling or sending a text wouldn’t have been sufficient. 

Most of the windows surrounding the building are barred closed as well, or unable to open at all, aside from one very high, startlingly small window near the roof that seems able to open from the outside. 

“I’m a bit of a spry old thing,” Dwayne says when they find it. “Why don’t you boost me up and I’ll try to get in?” 

Fidel seems dubious. “...you sure that’s a good idea?” 

“I’ll be _fine_! I practice yoga regularly, you know! I’m very agile.” 

Fidel _didn’t_ know that, actually, and the truth is that Dwayne has a girlfriend on the island with a studio and maybe his reasons for going to those classes aren’t entirely in the interest of his health and-

“Well. I guess you _are_ a bit smaller than me,” Fidel admits. “Narrower shoulders too.” 

Dwayne sends him an affectionate glare. He didn’t have to go _that_ far. 

“Just..hush up and give me a boost, eh?” 

Fidel does, of course, pushing Dwayne’s foot up from the ground onto his shoulder, then the next one. He can reach the window. 

“You’re so much lighter than I thought’d you’d be!” Fidel calls out to him from below. “Feels like when I lift up Juliette!” 

Dwayne threatens to bop him in the head with one of the palm tree fronds that’s fallen on the roof in the storm, but it does nothing to hinder the little giggle of laughter from the man holding him up. 

Finally, he gets it open, and with a bit of a hearty push from Fidel, Dwayne’s entering the building. Then falling. He loses any grip he had on the window frame or wall and is soon clattering onto a table. 

Fidel must have heard this. “You okay in there??” Dwayne hears him call from outside. 

“I’m _fine_!” he yells back as he groans a little in getting up, brushes off any of the pens and paper that fell on him in the process. “Just a bit of a bumpy landing, that’s all!” 

He realizes after a time he’s in a separate room, a computer lab or-...lab of some kind, anyway, and there’s no trace of the Chief or Camille here, so he leaves said room to get to the main part of the building. 

Dwayne calls for them as he meanders down the hallway, checking in room after room that passes him. He’s getting closer to the front door now, surely they have to be in here somewhere or he’s just really at a loss-

Dwayne stops. His foot has suddenly tread against...what _looks_ to be an article of clothing, lavender or something in color, almost exactly like the top Camille was wearing the day before, when she left with the Chief to-....

His eyes need only follow the trail of haphazardly discarded items of clothing to see the palette of blankets...and Detective Inspector Richard Poole and Sergeant Camille Bordey, curled up together asleep, seemingly with only the blankets to cover up their otherwise naked bodies. 

As previously stated, Dwayne Meyers is a man of the world. He’s seen it all, done it all, and he knows when to be respectful of the privacy two people have cultivated for themselves...but then, this is the first time those two people are his _superiors_ , and while he and Fidel might have had a bet going (that the Commissioner may or may not have been part of...Catherine as well…) that this would happen _eventually_ , there is a case to be solved and work to be done. 

He still doesn’t see how he’s going to appropriately wake them up, all things considered. 

Maybe he’ll just...come back later…? When they’ve dressed, at least? 

Well, he doesn’t need to mull it over for very long, because in his attempts to back up and exit the building completely...he’s collided with some glass beakers, a couple of which go shattering to the floor. 

Richard wakes up almost immediately, but Dwayne’s made himself scarce enough that he doesn’t seem to realize he and Camille are not alone. When Dwayne sees him snuggle closer to her, whisper something in her ear…

He looks away, looks helplessly towards the front door...any exit at all. This is getting very, _very_ awkward. 

Again, any attempts to leave quietly before they can realize he’s here are thwarted; Camille rouses enough soon after this to see him, to shriek and cover herself up to her chin with the blanket over them. 

“DWAYNE-...!” Richard exclaims, as if he’s just woken up to another python in his cabin or some such thing, as if Dwayne has chosen _purposefully_ to creep up on them the morning after their...fun. 

He’ll probably want to tease them about it later- for now, he’s just as humiliated and panicked as the couple before him. 

“I came _looking_ for you!” Dwayne shouts back, defensive. “How was I supposed to know you’d both be naked??” 

“ _Dwayne_ …!” Camille yells this time, but there’s a bit of a growl to her voice, as if to warn him this _isn’t_ the time to be having this argument, as if to almost desperately beg him to get the hell out of here. 

He does want to defend his own position, of course, but he’s reminded that the general discomfort of this whole encounter is, perhaps, more important. 

“When _you’re_ ready then,” Dwayne allows, tipping his hat for some reason (why on earth did he do that??), averting his eyes and heading back rather desperately for the front door. “Fidel and I are outside. Waiting. So, y’know. Maybe no more morning cuddling until later-” 

Richard and Camille are _both_ shouting his name now, quite impatient, and Dwayne scurries outside as quickly as the bar to the front door will allow. 

* * *

  
  


Fidel finds him again, leaning up against the front of the University building, his eyes wide in an attempt to forget what he just saw inside. It’s not that Dwayne hasn’t been rooting for them this whole time, it’s not as if he doesn’t think the Chief and Camille are oddly perfect for each other and just needed to figure that out (boy, did they), but he really hadn’t needed to see... _all_ that he had. 

Maybe he’s not as _worldly_ as he’d like to believe. 

“...you okay…?” Fidel asks, seeming to notice his perturbed look. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Well...in a manner of speaking, Dwayne thinks, because when Richard doesn’t have a shirt on he’s almost so pasty white that- “Are the Chief and Camille okay?? Did you find them??” 

Fidel’s concern is back and he’s lunging for the door. Dwayne stops him. 

“They’re _fine_ ,” Dwayne assures with a warning look. “In fact...I think they quite enjoyed themselves last night.” 

Fidel’s confused. Sweet, innocent boy. 

“Did they get to make some breakthroughs in the case?” he guesses. “They certainly had the time.” 

Dwayne just laughs. Oh yes, a _breakthrough_ was made, certainly. 

There’s no more time to make vague jokes though, as Camille and Richard are both ploughing through the door, adjusting their clothing suspiciously. Richard is also pushing something into Fidel and Dwayne’s hands, respectively, an interceptor or satellite type of thing it appears to be. He’s also gushing excitedly about ‘balloon hunting’ and both officers are just completely lost. 

When Camille and Richard have moved past them to the Land Rover, Dwayne chances a look over at Fidel.

“You owe me money,” he says, and he’ll be sharing a similar sentiment with the Commissioner and Catherine later. 

  
  



End file.
